Assault on Darkshire [Staging]

[Skeletor]

Skeletor glanced upwards towards the roof of the tunnel, as the muted thunder of countless footfalls and the echoing war cries of man and monster sounded above him. The clash would be imminent now, the Defenders off Darkshire could see their enemy, and their resolve would hold or it would break. Illidan’s forces were beginning their charge, that sound was distinctive even above the whirring of the Doom-drill he was guiding. The Defenders of Darkshire would likely be about to respond in kind. It was almost time to enact the first stage of his plan.

Skeletor looked back at the forces he had been given, the chittering Zerglings scuttled along behind him, always nipping at the rear of his Doom-drill as it chewed steadily through the softened rock. Their slower brethren followed more ponderously, pestilent sacs bulging and glistening as they forced away the natural carapace of the creature. A safe distance behind those creatures was the bulk of Skeletor’s forces. A large shambling mass of corpses trundled relentlessly forward, interspersed with a slew of werewolves and minor vampyres, servants Illidan had pressed into his service. A cadre of Poenari’s wraiths rounded out the regiment Skeletor had been allotted. All that remained was to put them into action...

A wailing horn echoed down the winding tunnel towards him, one blast, and then a second. The signal from Illidan. Darkshire’s forces were holding outside of the walls. They intended to meet Illidan’s forces head on, rather than cowering behind their walls of stone. Skeletor’s ever-grin was wide upon his face. The fools, things were working well indeed. A third sounding of the fell horn of death came wafting from the back of his forces. They were charging back? Skeletor wasn’t sure whether to be impressed with the bravery of Darkshire’s forces or to laugh at the foolishness of their commanders. Either way, their plan was clear in this instance The Skull-faced warlock turned to his companion. “Listen up, Phestor, you useless sack of meat! That was the signal horn!”

The rotting corpse that stood behind him turned with a vestigial attempt at propriety, an effort undermined by the body’s clearly disintegrating muscular structure. Skeletor knew very little about the corpse that stood before him, saluting with one degenerated arm, its rotting hand hanging limply in front of a gaunt face, suspended by a few threads of sinew. The torn chainmail and rusted helmet sported the colors and emblem he recognized as belonging to those miserable Camelot soldiers, though the design seemed slightly behind the times. Regardless, the corpse seemed to hold an odd amount of sway with its undead brethren, as Clawfang had explained to Skeletor when their forces were beginning to divide. The Werewolf hadn’t bothered to give Skeletor any further details, and thus the warlock dubbed the shambler Phestor, a name the corpse seemed entirely content to respond to.

Skeletor pointed back towards army “Tell those ghosts that it’s their turn to act! And be quick about it before you decompose on the spot!” Phestor nodded and turned shambling towards the back of the Doomdrill’s open cockpit. Instead of using the ladder to descend, Phestor elected to simply pitch itself over the side, and the was a squelch as it’s form smacked against the metal hull of the drill before landing in the tunnel behind the machine. The Zerglings reacted on instinct, closing in with the clear intent to rend the body to ribbons, but drew up short when they smelled the obvious decay that permeated the body. Phestor slowly straightened and shambled back towards the main bulk of the horde, a long low moan escaping its parched lips.

In short order the unit of wraiths divided, shifting incorporeally through the walls of the tunnel and up. It was all part of their plan. As the armies clashed on the ground outside Darkshire, the defender’s charge would be thrown into disarray as wraiths burst from the ground beneath their feet, even as other spirits assaulted them from the sky and the more bodily ghouls charged screaming into their ranks. If things went according to plan the defender’s counter assault would be disrupted, and Illidan would rout their forces, slaughtering them by the droves as they struggled to regroup outside the fortifications of Darkshire itself.

The Doom drill churned inevitably forward. In what seemed like little time at all, the tip screeched as it made contact with the foundational stone of Darkshire’s wall. Skeletor twisted a dial on the dashboard and shifted the drill into a higher frequency. The motor revved, and shards of rock spewed out, glancing of the Doomdrill’s wind shield. Skeletor telekinetically called his Havoc staff into his hand, and the image of Kerrigan appeared with the crystal ball.

“Kerrigan! We’ve reached the wall. Tell your Banelings to burrow up until they're just below the surface. The tunnel I am creating will weaken the substructure, and once we are through your critters will bring the whole wall out from under them.” Kerrigan did not respond to him, but the Zerglings and Banelings began to fan out, burrowing into the walls of the tunnel on either side of the drill. Skeletor watched them go with the slightest twinge of trepidation, if Kerrigan decided to trigger the Zerg before Skeletor and his forces were entirely through the wall, their assault would be doomed even before they began.

The Drill’s tip burst through the hard stone, and began chewing through packed earth once again. Soon enough the hole was made, and Skeletor’s shambling horde marched steadily onwards right past the stalwart defenders of Darkshire. Skeletor glanced backwards as the drill churned steadily onwards. If they were detected too soon his forces would be absolutely slaughtered, he needed to finish the tunnel quickly, to give his men room to maneuver.  He thought that most of the forces were through, and his questioning glance met with the face of Phestor amongst the crowd of corpses and monsters. The former soldier held up his arm, the dangling hand hanging limp with thumb extended and fingers tucked. That was all the confirmation Skeletor needed. If the others weren’t through yet, then they were too slow to be of any use in the upcoming battle any way. He turned back to visage of Kerrigan, her scaled face staring up at him from the Havoc Staff. “Bring Darkshire's defenses crumbling to their knees!”